


Cinnamon Rolls

by TAFKAB



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Ficlet, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-12
Updated: 2016-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-26 08:02:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6230566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TAFKAB/pseuds/TAFKAB
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo prepares to feed a long-expected guest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cinnamon Rolls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rutobuka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rutobuka/gifts).



> Baby's first Bagginshield! ;-) A ficlet to thank Rutobuka for her wonderful Gigolas illustration (a beautiful thing that can be found in my story With Wit and Soul Intact).

Bilbo loved baking, though he usually let the Gamgees do it for him in the summertime. Today, however, he was prepared to make an exception. Special guests called for special cooking.

He rose with the dawn and laid wood in the stove. Golden light streamed in through the thick glass panes, dappling the table with sunlight as he poured flour and oil into a bowl, mixing with care: his mother’s favorite recipe, a family secret Lobelia would have killed to have. Not that she would ever set tooth in one of these, not if Bilbo Baggins had anything to say about it.

He let the fire sink to coals while he kneaded the dough and laid it in a bowl to rise, then punched it down and did it again.

Butter, sugar, chopped nuts. Humming, he wielded the knife and pretended the pecans were Lobelia’s fingers. 

The kitchen was hot by noon, and Bilbo rolled up his sleeves, opening windows throughout the hole and gazing off down the hill.

He could see nothing unusual stirring in Hobbiton, so he set aside his nerves and went back to the dough. Cinnamon, sugar, and nuts. Drizzle with melted butter. Roll. Cut. Bake.

He nearly jumped out of his skin as hard strong arms slid around his middle.

“You said not to knock.” Midnight-dark and sweet, a voice out of his dreams rumbled through him. “What are you making? It smells delicious.”

“I didn’t see you,” Bilbo squeaked, well and truly trapped. Hard hips pressed his sternum against the table. “Cinnamon rolls for your companions. And you, of course.”

“I brought no companions.” The voice was very close to his ear, all but a growl, and it resonated through him from the crown of his head to the tips of his toes. “I came to see you myself and sent them on to the Blue Mountains. I said I would join them later.”

“That was very,” Bilbo swallowed hard as Thorin shifted, his whole body pressed against Bilbo’s back. “Very thoughtful of you.”

“You’ve provisioned yourself to feed an army,” Thorin observed, chuckling softly, a delirious sensation that nearly sent Bilbo’s eyes rolling back into his head. “I should have sent a raven and warned you. But it doesn’t matter.” His hands slid along Bilbo’s upper arms, a slow transit from shoulder to elbow. “I’m sure we’ll be very hungry every time we finish, and I plan to stay as long as I can.” 

“Every time we—” Bilbo gulped, and he thought he might know what it felt to be a cinnamon roll baking in the oven: the tender crust going golden brown, the sweet filling bubbling at the edges, melting with succulent heat. He thought if Thorin’s fingertips touched his skin, he would hear a hiss.

“I must say you don’t waste any time!” he blurted, and Thorin laughed again; teeth grazed his neck, but the dwarf drew back.

“Finish your baking.” He stepped away and went to the table, pouring himself a mug of wine. “The journey went well; there are few orcs lingering along the Greenway to bother travelers this season.” He reached for a pan of cooling rolls and took one, biting in, licking the savory sugar from his lips and smiling, a look that sent curls of quivering heat up Bilbo’s spine. 

He did not seem troubled by the heat, so much less than the forges of Erebor. Where he rightfully belonged, but he was now, impossibly, in Bilbo’s own kitchen. Again. At last. Bilbo’s belly fluttered with pleasure and nerves and dark, sweet wanting as Thorin’s tongue darted out to lick his lips. 

“Perhaps the orcs of the mountains have at last learned the measure of the sons of Durin.” Thorin laughed to himself, pleased.

That turn of phrase made Bilbo’s cheeks heat as he thought of taking Thorin’s measure, of the promise given and accepted in the form of a mailshirt of mithril. He fumbled to arrange the rolls on a baking sheet, then put them in. 

“You have flour on your nose,” Thorin purred, and rose, setting aside his mug. He stalked near to Bilbo, who stared at him, eyes round, and let himself be lifted and set on the edge of the table—in the midst of the remains of the flour, unable to care. Thorin leaned in and dusted his nose, making Bilbo quiver. Sitting like this he was on a level with Thorin’s face, and he licked his lips, trembling. 

“The table is covered with flour.”

“It is.” Thorin nodded, agreeable. “What of it? Your trousers will wash.”

“The rolls will be done in a few minutes.” He was stalling—to prolong this wonderous meeting, and because he was afraid. It had been so long since he saw Thorin, and they had never quite managed, never quite…. With the quest, and the gold sickness and Thorin’s injuries, and Gandalf’s warning that things would not go well in the Shire, were Bilbo declared dead….

“Then we have time to fill.” Thorin hesitated, though, his gaze searching Bilbo’s. “Are you glad I have come?”

“Of course.” Bilbo spoke hastily, then flushed as Thorin smiled, and knew he was being teased. “How is the wound?” Quite the wrong thing to say, but Thorin smiled. 

“Healed, now that I am here.”

His mouth brushed Bilbo’s once, slow and sweet, then drew back, and he studied Bilbo’s flushed face before leaning in again. Bilbo swallowed hard and he reached out, setting his hands on Thorin’s broad shoulders.

“I should have stayed.”

“You would have lost your home.”

“It doesn’t matt—”

Thorin’s mouth silenced him, and this time it was warm and sure, pressing forward, opening him as Thorin’s arms slid around his waist, pulling him forward and Thorin’s powerful body pushed itself between his thighs.

His mouth tasted both dark and spicy, and Bilbo’s head whirled as he opened, helpless, to the deep, slow strokes of Thorin’s tongue. 

Thorin reached to the stove and opened the door, the fire-heat baking out to glow against Bilbo’s body. He needed no glove to pull out the tray and its precious cargo and set them aside, then close the door and pick Bilbo up—so very easily, as if the halfling weighed nothing at all. 

Bilbo wrapped his legs around Thorin’s waist and clung for dear life as Thorin swept him away and carried him to his bed and laid him down, kissing him, his broad hand threaded through Bilbo’s sweat-damp curls. 

“I’m coming with you,” Bilbo whispered against his lips when his head lifted.

“Yes.” Thorin laughed, warm and low and sweet. “You will be.”

Bilbo blushed bright red. “I meant when you leave.”

“I meant both.”


End file.
